


Fighting With My Weak Hand

by feverbeats



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making out with Voldemort wasn't really ever high on Harry's list, but now the world is hot and strange and close, and maybe Tom is the only one who ever got it.</p><p>Warning: dubcon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting With My Weak Hand

  
"I think–and mind you, I have given this all due consideration–that I am turning into Harry Potter."

Severus raises an eyebrow.

Voldemort waves a hand. "I know, I know. What do you say to that, really? Well, don't bother trying. I'm not expecting a response." He smooths his robes. "It's just worrying."

"Hm," Severus says. The eyebrow is still firmly raised.

"Stop that. It's irritating. Now go. You have work to do."

Severus bows and leaves the room.

Voldemort sits back in his chair and frowns. His thoughts should be getting clearer, not more confused. Severus is obviously going to be no help about it. Voldemort thought he might have had experience with a matter of this sort, as he's quite well-versed in the back alleys of magic, but no such luck.

Red and gold bloom in front of Voldemort's eyes every time he sleeps. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Words that don't belong to him skid through his brain, paint-thin, singing to him. It's been years since he was an angry teenager, and even then, he didn't sound like this.

He misses his friends, friends he doesn't have. It's getting ridiculous. He shouldn't have to fight through teenage pain and angst. He has work to do.

*

Harry is almost seventeen and all messed up on drama. His life has gone all orange and red around the edges and he doesn't know how anything fits together. Nothing works anymore. It's too hot. That's the beginning. He doesn't know the end yet, but he's pretty sure he won't like it. No one makes it out of things like this in one piece. He's read books. He's seen films. People don't just walk away whole. They lose things, important things. If he's lucky, it'll just be an eye or an arm. If he's unlucky, he won't ever be ok again.

Everything in the world seems older, not just Harry. Planes fly too low. And no, these generalizations don't make anything better. He knows that. He just doesn't know how to get out of his own head enough to deal with it. He can't exactly fix himself now. It's a little late for that. He's just going to cope as best he can, which isn't very fucking well. It's not like he's really trying to keep together, anyway. He expects he'll live long enough to have a go at Voldemort. Whether or not it works, he isn't really planning on making it out the other side.

And the dreams are getting worse. He's not even sure if he's awake during the day anymore. Everything is hazy, and at night, the fog is even worse. That night, he smiles in the dark, kisses the pages of the diary he's started keeping. _I could breathe life into it. I'm tired of dreaming about dying. I'm tired of being afraid. Scared, scared little Tom Riddle–_

And then he's dreaming, and the real Tom Riddle is standing in front of him black hair and green eyes like a mirror. "Stop it," he says.

Harry feels angry, lost. "Stop what? I'm not the one doing it."

"Well, it's not my fault you keep on fucking _bleeding_ into me."

Harry feels his own mouth tug itself into an unfamiliar sneer. "I thought you wanted me to bleed."

"Stopit," Tom says again, blurrily. He lifts a hand to shove Harry, but it moves as slowly as though he's moving through molasses.

"_I'm_ not doing it," Harry says, feeling a weird triumph that isn't quite his own.

"I didn't go through all that just to fail," Tom spits at Harry. "You've no idea, have you? The _shit_ I had to put up with. Slughorn's hands on me. That's what it cost to get me the information about Horcruxes. And Dippet, him too. That's the only reason I got such good treatment. Precious, special, brilliant Tom Riddle. No. They never thought that. To them, I was just a pretty little whore."

He waits for Harry to flinch at the words. Harry doesn't.

Tom sighs sharply and goes on. "Dumbledore was the only one who saw how brilliant I was, and all he did was hate me for it."

"The only one who never touched you," Harry says slowly, "And the only one you ever wanted to."

"Oh, you have _no idea_ who I want. Ha. You don't even know who _you_ want."

Harry opens his mouth to say Ginny's name, despite the fact that he knows that something else will leave his mouth. He isn't quite sure what. He doesn't have a chance to try, though, because Tom is suddenly blurring across the dark, empty space between them to press a finger to Harry's lips. Harry feels cold.

And then Tom's pale, thin fingers are digging into Harry's hips, and Harry is very aware of how stupid he must look in his boxers and t-shirt.

Making out with Voldemort wasn't really ever high on Harry's list, but now the world is hot and strange and close, and maybe Tom is the only one who ever got it.

Tom hisses in his ear, and Harry shivers. He hears the words in English, but he knows it's parseltongue because of the slick feeling behind them. The words wrap around him, sibilant and insane. "If we're going to be the same fucking person," Tom whispers, "you're going to have to do better than that."

Fine. Harry can step it the hell up. Because hey, there's a war on. He shoves Tom hard in the chest, and there's a wall behind Tom suddenly.

"Whose dream is this, anyway?" Tom asks, flushed and angry as Harry holds him there.

"Mine," Harry says decisively. Not that it much matters, since Harry's forearm is blending into Tom's chest and Tom's breath is hitching in Harry's throat.

"Fuck," Tom whispers.

Harry tries to smile. "Well, yeah." If this weren't a dream, he wouldn't keep holding Tom there. If this weren't a dream, he wouldn't be hard, at least not yet.

Tom blinks his angry green eyes and waits. Harry shakes his head and says, "Turn around."

There's a flicker of red deep in Tom's eyes and he almost flinches. Harry can see _Voldemort_ written all over his face. It isn't like looking in a mirror. "I," Tom says.

"Do it." Harry wants to wake up. He also wants to fuck Voldemort. War isn't sane, and Harry never promised he'd be ok. He wants to hurt something, and he's been _told_ to hurt Voldemort. This has got to be all right, at least in somebody's book.

Tom is looking at him with something almost like fear. "You're going to die, Harry Potter."

"Yeah," Harry says, "I know." And he shoves Tom around roughly.

Tom rests his forehead against the wall and his fingers press against it desperately. Harry wants to make sense of this dream, if that's even what it is, but he also wants to just do this. He breathes against the back of Tom's neck, and he can feel Tom tremble. "Please," Tom whispers. Harry almost knows that the next word is _don't_, but he's not sure. He wraps his arms around Tom and slides slightly sweat-sticky fingers around his belt buckle.

Tom sighs almost resignedly. "I know you, Harry Potter. This wouldn't be happening if you didn't keep getting your brain all over me."

Harry laughs, brittle and petrified. "I guess not." He flicks the buckle open and undoes Tom's pants. He can hear Tom's breathing hitch slightly. As soon as Tom's pants are down, he pushes one finger in hard and fast. Tom makes a noise like he cares, but Harry knows he doesn't. See, Harry wouldn't care.

Tom moves in jerky little shakes, pushing himself back against Harry. Harry presses his free hand to the wall, right next to Tom's hand. He stares at his own fingers, harmless and thin against the wall.

As he starts to slide a second finger in, Tom shakes his head. "N-no. No. Just do it."  
Harry bites his lip. This is too real and too surreal at once. But there's a, there's _a fucking war on, haven't we mentioned?_ He moves his hand to Tom's hip and pushes into Tom, a little too fast. Tom makes a noise which comes out as a moan, but which probably started as a scream.

Harry smothers a gasp in Tom's dark hair. This is probably not on the list of ways to defeat the Dark Lord. Harry presses closed lips to the back of Tom's neck and fucks him harder.  
Harry's hand is pale like the skin stretched too thin over Tom's hip. He shuts his eyes and thinks of someone else.

When he comes, there are no fireworks, just a dull orange ache behind his eyes. Tom shudders again, hard, and then goes still.

Harry wakes up gasping, feeling like maybe he almost _didn't_ wake up.

*

Voldemort wakes up shaking with the _pain_ of being sixteen and helpless and angry and broken and there's just so much to do, and he can't, he _can't_.


End file.
